


Take the Long Way Home

by quadrotriticale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, John winchester is a bad dad, POV Sam Winchester, POV Second Person, the year is: 1999
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 10:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16808410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrotriticale/pseuds/quadrotriticale
Summary: “Did you get your tapes?”Dean shoots you a smile in the dark. “You think I’d come all the way out here without my tapes? Glove box, take your pick.”





	Take the Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> so i wrote this/finished this instead of studying i havent posted anything in a billion years and its because im in college and dying in real life.  
> also: i will give you money if you can guess what concert dean wants to go to.  
> title is a reference to supertramp's take the long way home, off their album breakfast in america which you should definitely listen to

You’re 16, small and stringy, still too small to have outgrown your brother's hand-me-downs. This isn't the first time Dean has had to come and get you since this isn't the first time you've run away, and it's not going to be the last time you run away either, or the last time he goes out to find you. He has a black eye and won’t tell you where he got it, and you’re so angry you think you’re dizzy, so angry you think you're going to black out. The inside of the car (he won’t tell you where he got it either, it’s not the impala) is as dead silent as the inside of a car can be. The sun is starting to dip below the skyline, and you watch the trees outside the window, try to think of anything else to keep yourself from lashing out at him. 

You don’t know how long the drive is, how long it’s going to be, don't really know where you're going since there's no chance in Hell that your dad stayed where he was when you ran. You've been out a good while this time, and he's never cared about you enough to stay put in the past. Dean says nothing to you for about an hour. You get the impression that he's trying to keep himself together as much as you are. You don’t cry, you don’t yell, you don’t really do anything except stare out the window. You’re angry at him, angry at your dad who you’re sure is behind this, Dean's black eye and Dean picking you up and Dean not having the Impala, angry at yourself for being so predictable that he could find you like he did. He doesn’t play any music, doesn’t fill the space between you with Led Zeppelin or Bob Seger or some other tape he’s recorded like you’re so used to him doing. It makes him feel further away from you than you’re used to. That’s good, you tell yourself, because you want nothing to do with him. You’re counting telephone poles on the outskirts of a small town when he finally breaks the silence.

“You’ve gotta stop running away, Sam,” he says. You sort of want to punch him.

“No, you have to stop coming to get me,” you reply, sharp and direct. 

“Sam-”

“I can’t take it anymore, okay? I don't want to go home, I don't want anything to do with him. All he does is argue and yell and threaten and I can’t take it anymore. Just stop coming to get me.”

Dean grits his teeth, white knuckling the steering wheel. “I can’t just let you leave, Sam.”

“Why not!? I can take care of myself, and- and- and I think if- You know what, if you cared about me at all, you'd just let me run away. You _know_ how I feel about Dad and you _know_ I can take care of myself! I was doing fine, I was fine."

“Sam-”

“I don’t- I don’t know why you’re still staying with him anyway, I don’t know. Even if you want to be a hunter, you can just- you can go anywhere, you can leave, you don’t have to stay with Dad. You can be a hunter anywhere you want, it doesn't have to be with _him_ , and I know I don't want to do that- maybe you don't either, I don't know, but I don't want to- I don't want to be surrounded by death and guns and knives and- and monsters my whole life, I want to- I don't know, I want to go to college, I want to get married, I want to live in a house and just- be normal, maybe. And you're 20 now, you don’t have to stay with Dad if- if you’re sticking around because of me, you don’t have to. I don’t want you to.”

Your brother’s shoulders slump a little, and your tempter softens a bit now that you've gotten some of your anger off your chest. His grip on the steering wheel relaxes as he sighs. 

“How ‘bout this, Sammy,” he starts, and this is the first time you notice how tired he is, how exhausted he sounds when he speaks. The world outside the car has turned black, deep, and endless, the sky empty and huge and starless above you. You can barely see your brother in the soft, blue glow of the dashboard. The lighting makes the bags under his eyes look worse than you already know they do. “Before you make any big decisions,” you start to protest, but he cuts you off, “we’ll stop off somewhere for a while, I don’t know, get some good food, catch a movie, whatever. Let you cool down a bit. Dad’s not expecting us back for- hah. Well, he’s not expecting us back for a while, so… Not too worried about that. And- and hey, there’s a concert I wanna see, if we can get all the way to Missouri. I bet I can still get tickets outta someone. That or I'll sneak in.”

You mull it over for a second, chew on the inside of your cheek. “...So we’re going to Missouri?”

“If you’re up to that. We’d be there ‘bout a week and a half.”

“...Alright. You got money?”

“Some,” he waves you off, “Got IDs and everything in the trunk, we’ll figure something out if we need more. Cool?”

“Cool.” You sink down in your seat, pause for a second. “Did you get your tapes?”

Dean shoots you a smile in the dark. “You think I’d come all the way out here without my tapes? Glove box, take your pick.” 

You pop open the glove box, pull out the little bag of cassette tapes you find in there, and turn on the light so you can see. You take your time reading the labels, going through each of them with interest. Rolling Stones, Metallica, a couple labeled “Radio Mix” with the songs and artists listed in tiny, barely legible chicken scratch. You pick the one you’re most fond of, pop it into the car’s tape deck, make sure it’s been re-wound though you know it already has. You shut the cab light off, put the tapes away, and hit play. Settling back in your seat, music fills the space between you and your brother. You feel, for the first time since you got in his car, and for the first time in a long while before that, like the space between you is a little bit smaller. Like he's your _brother_ instead of your enemy, the person your closest to instead of some kind of stranger.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, hums quietly to himself, and you've dozed off in the passenger's seat before he needs to flip the tape, the rumble of the engine and your own lingering exhaustion lulling you to sleep.

(Honestly, it's probably the most restful sleep you've had in months.)


End file.
